King's Bishop

Eleven

Owen leaned against the bridge and gazed down into the foaming water of the River Skell where it rushed forth from the abbey mill and caught the sun before disappearing beneath the dormitories and the infirmary. It was his second day at Fountains Abbey, but his first opportunity for a solitary walk. Yesterday he had settled the men, dined with Abbot Robert Monkton and Jehannes, attended services in the abbey church. By the time he’d had the leisure to slip outside, Owen found the sky louring with storm clouds and a cold, damp wind whipping down through the bowl of Skelldale. The valley had seemed too vulnerable for habitation.

Jehannes said the Cistercians had purposefully built in isolated countryside, the more desolate the better, to test themselves in their resolve to serve God with a simple life. With a storm coming, Skelldale had indeed seemed a place of trial.

But this morning the valley was utterly different, the sun lighting the trees atop the bluff and in the valley, sparkling on the rushing river, glinting off the lead roofs and warming the damp stone walls of the maze of buildings. The stone bridge on which Owen stood gave him a broad view of the abbey complex. He moved his good eye left along the expanse of the two-storey lay brothers’ dormitory and beyond to the great west door of the church with its Galilee porch, then up, up to the steep lead roof of the long church nave. To his right were two guest houses and the lay brothers’ infirmary. Behind him was the mill, a wool house, a malt house and more — far more outbuildings than at St Mary’s in York.

It was members of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Mary’s, protesting against the pampered life within its walls, who had fought for and won permission to come to the valley of the Skell and live simply, closer to God. The small company of monks had spent the first winter shivering in the caves tucked into the bluff above the church. From where Owen stood he could not see across the valley to those caves; the maze of buildings, particularly the church, blocked the view. Was this what they had intended? To fill the valley with their material presence? Yet despite the bustle of the large community, Owen sensed a joyous peace here.

Owen was not a stranger to abbeys. He had once spent a fortnight in St. Mary’s, York, seeking — but not finding — just such a peace as he felt in Skelldale. Here, away from the stench and noise of the city, where work, song, bells, prayer and devotional readings were the only noises of men competing with wind, bird-song, and the rushing river, Owen felt that peace. Was it the descent into the valley and the wild countryside all round, the sense of leaving the world behind? Was it the symmetries of the grand yet simple, unadorned stone buildings, the way the soaring arches echoed one’s footsteps? Or had the white monks tapped into a celestial paradise in this valley?

‘God smiles on the valley this morning,’ Jehannes said as he approached on Owen’s blind side.

Owen turned so that he might take in the Archdeacon with his right eye. ‘It looks to me as if God smiles on this valley more often than not. It takes prosperity to build such a complex.’

‘The white monks have almost been destroyed by their unplanned prosperity,’ Jehannes said. ‘Even these worthy brothers have succumbed to the lure of riches.’

‘Tell me nothing of their failings,’ Owen said. ‘Come round where I can see you and still look out on the church.’ He disliked having anyone on his blind side.

Jehannes moved round to Owen’s right. ‘I came out here not to disturb your peace but to tell you the party from Rievaulx has been spotted by a shepherd. They should arrive by midday.’

Owen smiled. ‘Good. Our business can be concluded quickly.’ Fountains might be a paradise, but York sheltered all those Owen held dear. He was anxious to return to his family. ‘Pray God the friar caused no trouble.’

Jehannes rested his forearms on the bridge with a sad sigh. ‘I, too, am eager to know the outcome. And yet I confess it seems a pity they arrive so soon. I should like more time here.’

‘Stay too long and you will be tempted to leave the world entirely,’ Owen warned.

Jehannes glanced round, surprised. ‘You feel the power of this place?’

Owen nodded.

‘Yet you wish to leave quickly.’

‘Aye. My family pulls me ever back to York. But I do sense a peace here. I feel I should whisper and step softly. God is near.’

The Archdeacon’s expression was wistful. ‘It is bewitching.’

Owen laughed. ‘I should have thought it more a blessing than a bewitching.’

‘I have no gift for eloquent speech.’

‘You were eloquent enough on Wykeham’s behalf. Abbot Monkton listened to your arguments most keenly. In truth I fear you were too eloquent. “Sober habits, tireless industry …”’ Owen shook his head. ‘His Grace the Archbishop would be disappointed. You make Wykeham sound the ideal bishop.’

Jehannes winced. ‘I told you I was no dissembler.’

Owen leaned his left elbow on the bridge and studied Jehannes’s profile. ‘The underlying problem is your heart, not your tongue, eh? You believe Wykeham well suited to be Bishop of Winchester.’

Jehannes did not reply at once, and when he did it was in a whisper almost lost in the sound of the rushing river. ‘I fear that I do. A better dissembler might argue less effectively, but I am bound to disappoint Archbishop Thoresby.’

‘Take heart, my friend. If you fail John Thoresby in this mission, you shall make a friend of the King.’

Jehannes shook his head. ‘John Thoresby shall make a friend of the King. My role in this will be overlooked.’

‘Do you ever wish you had chosen a cloistered life?’

Jehannes shrugged. ‘When I am in such a place as this, yes. But I quickly forget when I am back out in the world.’

The world. As if an abbey were not in the world. Clerics had odd notions. ‘What would it take for you to give up the world?’

‘A loss of self.’

Owen frowned. ‘Should you not have lost that to your calling?’

‘I am an archdeacon, Owen. An administrator, a financier, a politician as well as a clergyman. Selfless men of God make good saints, not archdeacons.’

It reminded Owen of Thoresby’s defence of the former Archdeacon of York, Anselm. In Owen’s mind Anselm had been a disgrace to his position, but Thoresby had called him a fine archdeacon, responsible for collecting the bulk of the donations for stained glass in the minster.

Owen turned towards the sound of someone approaching at a run. It was a lay brother, who reached them gasping for breath. ‘I am to tell you that the party from Rievaulx are come. There has been trouble. My lord abbot asks you to come quickly.’

A white-robed cluster took up the centre of the abbot’s parlour, pristine robes encircling travel-stained ones. From their midst, a cool voice could be heard saying, ‘As I had predicted …’

The voice hushed and the monks parted as Owen and Jehannes joined them, revealing in their midst a tall monk with deep-set eyes who carried himself with a haughty authority. Owen guessed this to be the speaker.

Abbot Robert Monkton stepped forward. ‘Captain Archer, Archdeacon Jehannes, this is Abbot Richard of Rievaulx.’

Jehannes bowed and spoke most courteously. Owen bobbed his head and asked after the escort.

‘They shall be lodged in the guest house with you,’ Abbot Monkton said. His eyes did not stay on Owen’s face.

Owen looked round at the waiting faces, noting all eyes focused on him. Uneasy eyes. It took no wit to sense trouble. ‘What has happened here?’

With a bow to his fellow abbot, Monkton said, ‘Abbot Richard had just begun to explain. It seems that Don Ambrose disappeared, and Captain Townley after him. Four men were left behind to search for them.’

‘Sweet Heaven!’ Jehannes murmured.

Well he might. Why hadn’t the bloody fool warned Ned about the friar’s request to quit the company? Owen closed his eye, clenched his hands. First hear all, then blame. ‘If you would be so kind as to tell me what happened. All of it.’

The Abbot of Rievaulx bowed to Owen with a chilly smile. ‘I shall begin again.’ He started with the incident on the bluff above Rievaulx. ‘Each had a different story, and I deemed both stories plausible, so I resolved to watch both men on the journey. Don Ambrose invariably exhibited a fearful wariness when the captain was near. Such strong emotion is difficult to mask. And, of course, Captain Townley revealed his guilt when he fled.’

‘Forgive me, my lord abbot, but you jump ahead,’ Owen said, winning a sniff from Abbot Richard. ‘Did you ever witness Captain Townley doing aught to warrant the friar’s behaviour?’

Abbot Richard sighed, lifted one shoulder slightly as if to dismiss the issue.

‘I thought not,’ Owen said. ‘Then whatever the problem, it began with the friar.’

Abbot Richard drew a piece of paper from his sleeve. ‘This letter reveals the connection between the two men.’

Abbot Monkton took the letter, read. His carefully neutral expression changed and by the time his eyes had moved from the letter he was quite agitated. ‘I would speak privately with the Captain, the Archdeacon, and my fellow Abbot.’

Once the others had shuffled out, Monkton quickly read through the document again. ‘It is a letter from Don Paulus, a fellow Austin friar, to Don Ambrose concerning the drowning of a young woman at Windsor — Mary, maid to Mistress Alice Perrers, a member of the Queen’s household. Paulus writes that he observed the body in the river but did not report it. He knows that Ambrose will understand his reluctance.’ The Abbots’ eyes met. ‘What I read here condemns Don Paulus and implicates Don Ambrose. What has this to do with Captain Townley?’

The drowning of Ned’s beloved. Owen crossed himself, turned to Abbot Monkton. ‘The young woman was Captain Townley’s betrothed, my lord abbot.’

Monkton’s eyebrows registered interest. But still he looked at his fellow abbot. ‘What was the friars’ interest in the young woman?’

‘I do not know,’ Richard said.

‘This letter was in Captain Townley’s possession?’ Owen asked.

Richard inclined his head. ‘I took it from him, yes. He claimed that the friar had attacked him during the night, then dropped the letter as he fled.’ Another eloquent sigh. ‘A friar attacking a soldier.’ He shook his head as if pitying Ned. ‘You see why I believe otherwise.’

‘You suspect Captain Townley of wrongdoing,’ Owen said. ‘What is it you think he did?’

‘I believe he discovered the letter in York and accused Don Ambrose of being a party to the girl’s accident. Threatened him.’

‘Do you have proof of this?’ Abbot Monkton asked.

Abbot Richard reared up. ‘The friar’s behaviour.’

Monkton shook his head at Owen’s scowl, turned back to Richard. ‘That is all?’

‘How might it be explained otherwise?’

Monkton turned to Owen. ‘It is said that you and the Captain are friends. You were together in York. Is it true? Did he see the letter, or hear of it, in York? Did he know of his lady’s death?’

‘I am certain he did not, my lord abbot.’

‘He would have told you?’

‘He would. Instead he spoke of Mary as his future wife.’

‘It is true,’ Jehannes said. ‘He spoke about the living, not the dead.’ He pointed to the letter. ‘That was written by an Austin friar?’

Abbot Monkton checked the letter. ‘Yes. The Austins are no friends of Wykeham. Might Don Ambrose have hoped to distract us from our purpose?’

‘No,’ Abbot Richard said in an impatient tone. ‘Don Ambrose told me he was to join the privy councillor’s household on his return.’

Monkton studied his fellow abbot with a sad expression. ‘You are convinced of the friar’s honesty and the Captain’s deceit.’ He shook his head. When Richard opened his mouth, Monkton held up a hand. ‘Peace. We must consider this after prayer and meditation. You must all rest from your journey. We shall meet again tomorrow morning.’

*

Owen and Jehannes walked back towards the guest house in silence, according to the custom of this place, but as they approached the Galilee porch at the west entrance to the church, Jehannes paused. ‘I would pray,’ he said.

Owen followed him in, though he itched to find Matthew and the men and to hear their accounts of Ned’s disappearance. Jehannes knelt before a statue of the Blessed Virgin placed high on one of the nave piers.

Back in the shadows, Owen knelt and said a prayer for his friend, then one for himself, though he ought rather to have cursed himself for ignoring Lucie’s warnings. She had predicted the situation precisely — anything that went wrong would be blamed on Ned, an easy scapegoat because the seeds of suspicion had been sown at Windsor, and once sown would require little sustenance to take root. Owen should have kept Ned by his side so he might be witness to anything that happened. How had Lucie seen it and he had not? What did he lack? He prayed for whatever it was. It was not necessary to know its name. God knew his failings well enough.

When Owen’s knees numbed with the cold, he rose and began to pace slowly round the nave. Stone screens extended from the first to the sixth piers on each side, backing the lay brothers’ choir stalls. Owen sat for a while in one of the stalls, his eye raised to the high roof, following with his ear the plight of a trapped bird. He assumed it was a bird — it was far too dark to see so high. The frantic wingbeat sounded otherworldly. How easy to believe an angel hovered above, listening to his prayers. But the truth of the trapped and frightened bird broke his peaceful meditations.

He rose and lifted a torch from the first pier, walked slowly down the outer aisle, studying the walls, and the scalloped and waterleafed capitals of the piers and corbels, the perfect stonework of the arches. Even the wall painting drew one into quiet contemplation, repeated lines mimicking masonry, nothing more.

Jehannes joined him. ‘I hear a bird above.’

Owen returned the torch to its sconce. ‘Come. Let us leave the door ajar and hope the bird sees its freedom.’

In the guest house, Jehannes sank down on a chair, refused wine. ‘I should have warned both you and Ned about Don Ambrose the moment he came to see me.’

‘Aye, that you should have.’ Owen sat down beside Jehannes, his anger forestalled by his friend’s admission. ‘But I, too, am at fault. Lucie warned me. She said Ned would be blamed for aught that went wrong on the journey.’ He accepted the wine the servant offered, asked him, ‘The men who escorted the party from Rievaulx, where are they?’

‘The four soldiers are up in the chamber next to yours, Captain. Matthew is in there.’ The servant indicated a door at the far end of the parlour.

Owen eased himself up, started for the door.

‘It is locked,’ the servant said in a timid voice.

‘Locked? Why?’

‘Abbot Richard said he must be confined.’

‘Unlock it for him,’ Jehannes said.

The servant looked uncertain. ‘You will keep him inside, Captain?’

Owen nodded. The door was duly opened. Taking up an oil lamp, Owen stepped into a small, dark, airless room. Matthew, lying on a cot, threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden light.

‘You need a good meal, eh?’ Owen settled at the foot of the cot.

Matthew lifted himself up on one elbow, rubbed his eyes. ‘I have little appetite at the moment, Captain Archer.’

That was plain, and understandable, but Owen could not allow Matthew the peace to lick his wounds. ‘You must eat. I have questions to ask you. And we’ve more travel before we’re through.’

‘Abbot Richard hates Captain Townley.’

Owen shook his head to silence Matthew while the servant brought in bread, cheese, and ale. When the servant was gone, Owen swung his long legs off the cot, reached for the pitcher, filled a cup, handed it to Matthew, who drank thirstily.

Owen filled a cup for himself. ‘Now, tell me in your own words what happened with Captain Townley.’

Matthew proved to be a careful recorder, noting conversations with Ned, his observations of Don Ambrose. He recounted what he remembered of Ned’s encounters with the friar. ‘By the time we left Rievaulx, Captain Townley was uneasy. Watchful. Something made the friar fearful, and it had something to do with the Captain, you see. That much seemed plain.’

Owen was quiet a while, thinking. But unless Matthew left out some critical detail, there seemed nothing to note except a nervous friar who — what? Was worried Ned might find the letter? And do what? Was Abbot Richard correct? Was the friar worried that Ned would blame him? Imagine he was implicated in the drowning? Ned’s temper was quick to ignite and burned hot. ‘Don Ambrose kept the letter in his pouch, you say?’

Matthew nodded.

‘He kept it close at all times?’

‘Yes. I think that is why Abbot Richard did not believe he dropped it in the barn.’

Owen, too, found that passing strange. ‘The friar received the letter in York and his odd behaviour began then.’ Owen sighed. ‘I must agree with Abbot Richard, much as I dislike agreeing with the man. You saw no evidence of the friar’s unease before?’

‘He was nervous from the start, but not of anyone in particular. Or perhaps of Wyndesore’s men, Bardolph and Crofter.’

Owen remembered Crofter’s cold eyes. But would the friar have understood the danger in such a man? ‘Why them?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘I think it was their speech. They have been on campaign of late, with Sir William and the Duke of Clarence. Rough, rude, bawdy speech and songs.’

‘They gave him trouble?’

‘Not that I saw. They’re up to something, though.’ He told Owen of Crofter’s effort to associate Ned with Alice Perrers in Abbot Richard’s mind, and their claim that Wyndesore had set them to watch Ned.

‘What madness was this?’ Owen growled. ‘I’ve never encountered such a pack of scheming fools.’ He was frustrated. All the threads seemed to head nowhere or into a knot. But seeing Matthew’s alarmed look, he put his anger aside. ‘Once Don Ambrose had the letter, it was Captain Townley he watched?’

‘We saw him little in York. But once we had headed out towards Rievaulx, yes, he was fearful of the Captain; watched him all the time.’ Matthew rubbed his eyes, rumpled his hair. The ale was warming him up. ‘Why would friars exchange such a letter? About a young woman?’

Why indeed?

‘I’m damned if I know. Would they have known Mary was to wed Captain Townley?’

‘Most like. After the death of Daniel — Sir William of Wyndesore’s page — everyone at the castle must have known. Courtiers love their gossip, and their confessors hear it all, I imagine.’

Owen disliked how he agreed with the Abbot more and more. He leaned over, refilled Matthew’s cup. ‘What was Captain Townley like when you last saw him?’

‘Drunk as a lord, sir,’ Matthew said. ‘I did not like to think of him riding through the moors in such a state.’

‘Nor I.’ The account left Owen with much to ponder. ‘Eat something, Matthew. I will be taking you with me when we escort Abbot Richard to Rievaulx.’

‘Escort him back?’

‘My man Alfred will escort Archdeacon Jehannes back to York. I wish to see where Captain Townley and Don Ambrose disappeared. So I shall lead Abbot Richard’s escort back to Rievaulx when the meeting is over.’

‘I do not know what else I might have done.’ Matthew’s huge eyes implored. He looked like an awkward puppy.

‘I see nothing to blame in your conduct, Matthew.’

A sigh. ‘Abbot Richard hates the Captain.’

‘Aye. You have said that twice now. I doubt he hates him. I doubt he has made much note of him at all. My guess is the trouble between the Captain and the friar came as an opportunity to question the integrity of our mission.’

‘But how can it?’

‘It does not need to make sense to work in his favour, Matthew.’ That Owen had learned from his work for the Archbishop.

Another storm had moved in overnight. Archdeacon Jehannes was chilled when he joined the two abbots in Monkton’s parlour, and the smug expression on Abbot Richard’s face did nothing to warm him.

Owen had agreed that the Abbot of Rievaulx might be friendlier to Jehannes if he attended alone, but it appeared they had been wrong. Jehannes fortified himself with spiced wine and settled in for an unpleasant round of argument. ‘I am sure the issue needs no further explanation,’ he began.

‘No,’ Abbot Monkton said with a smile meant to soften what was to come. ‘In fact, it requires no further discussion.’

Abbot Richard made no effort to mask a smug grin, and Jehannes knew what was coming.

Abbot Monkton winced, as if experiencing, too, the pain he imagined Jehannes must feel. ‘Abbot Richard and I do not agree about Captain Townley and Don Ambrose …’

‘They have nothing to do with my purpose for being here,’ Jehannes said, interrupting. It was either this mild aggression or throw wine in Abbot Richard’s smug face, which would distress Abbot Monkton.

‘The Captain and friar are to your purpose,’ Abbot Monkton said, holding up his hands for silence when Jehannes began to protest. ‘I have prayed over this, my son, and I am quite confident in my assessment. This unfortunate circumstance is a sign given us by God that we are right to stand firm against pluralism.’ He paused as Jehannes shook his head. ‘You cannot see it?’

How could he? There was naught to see. ‘I cannot.’

‘Were Wykeham a simple parish priest, conscientious in ministering to the souls in his care, His Holiness would have readily agreed to his appointment, Wykeham would have been consecrated, and all would have progressed quietly, efficiently. Instead, the King pushes his favourite at His Holiness, a favourite on whom the King has already lavished an array of benefices that bring him indecent wealth, a favourite who has attracted enemies. Naturally, His Holiness sees this as a dangerous situation; such a prominent, wealthy, political man, a man so important to the King, will not suddenly change his allegiance and withdraw his attention from the court to focus on the see of Winchester. His diocese will become a pawn in the King’s hands.’

‘I understand His Holiness’s objections,’ Jehannes snapped. The Abbot tried his patience. Together they had been through all this already. ‘But your point? The connection between this and Don Ambrose’s attack upon Captain Townley?’ Obviously Archbishop Thoresby was going to get his wish and be assisted in his work against Wykeham by these two men, and Jehannes knew he should not protest too strongly. But the argument must make sense. ‘I do not yet see how to explain this connection to the King.’

Abbot Monkton sighed. ‘Patience, my son, patience. Simply put, had the King’s candidate been a simple man of God, these companies of men would not be riding through the kingdom collecting support for him. Because the King’s candidate is already a man of great wealth and power, and none of that his by birth or simple hard work, he is a man with many enemies. The entire situation begs the kind of discord and danger we now see.’

‘Which is precisely our point,’ Abbot Richard added in a falsely sweet tone.

Jehannes did not allow himself to glance at Abbot Richard; it was not his purpose to make an enemy of these men. ‘My lord abbot,’ he said to Monkton, ‘surely you do not think the young lady’s death had anything to do with Wykeham’s advancement?’

‘Not her death, though even that might have been avoided had Captain Townley remained at Windsor, but the letter from Don Paulus to Don Ambrose which so incensed the Captain …’

Jehannes took a deep breath and managed to stay calm and polite throughout the rest of the meeting, which continued far too long. Two questions kept rising to the surface of his mind: What had the maid to do with Wykeham’s advancement? What was Abbot Richard’s purpose in seizing that connection? In the end, Jehannes merely smiled and nodded and took his leave with admirable calm and courtesy.

‘Abbot Richard never meant to support Wykeham,’ Owen said. ‘I see no riddle in that. But I too find it puzzling that Mary’s drowning should concern the friars — on that we agree.’

Jehannes paced the guest house parlour, hands behind his back, head bowed forward, brow furrowed. ‘I think we owe it to Captain Townley to find out more about the friars’ interest in his lady’s death,’ he said at last, pausing before Owen.

Owen nodded. ‘I agree. I had begun a letter to the Archbishop for Ned, to learn as much detail of the incident as possible. I shall put the friars’ involvement to him as well.’

Jehannes’s brow suddenly smoothed, his mouth widened into a smile. ‘Owen Archer, you sly one. You do unto him as he would do unto you.’

Owen slapped his thighs, rose with a grin. ‘Aye, Jehannes. His Grace shall be my spy for a change.’